Chapter 98: The Execution: II
"But Count," Franz said, "with this philosophy where you become both judge and executioner, you’d have a hard time avoiding the law. Hatred is blind, rage makes you reckless, and someone pouring out vengeance risks a bitter outcome."
"Yes, if he’s poor and inexperienced. Not if he’s rich and skilled. Besides, the worst that could happen is the punishment we already discussed, the one the humanitarian French Revolution substituted for being torn apart by horses or broken on the wheel. What does that punishment matter, as long as he gets his revenge? Honestly, I almost regret that this miserable Peppino probably won’t be beheaded, since you would’ve had a chance to see how quickly it’s over and whether it’s even worth mentioning. But really, this is a strange conversation for Carnival time, gentlemen. How did we even start talking about this? Ah, I remember, you asked for a spot at my window. You’ll have it, but first let’s eat breakfast. The servant is here to tell us it’s ready."
As he spoke, a servant opened one of the apartment’s four doors, announcing in Italian that everything was prepared. The two young men stood and entered the breakfast room.
During the excellent, perfectly served meal, Franz kept glancing at Albert to see his reaction to their host’s disturbing words. But whether Albert had his usual carefree attitude and barely paid attention, or whether the count’s explanation about dueling had satisfied him, or whether these events only affected Franz, he noticed that his friend didn’t seem bothered at all. In fact, Albert ate like someone who’d been forced to eat Italian food for four or five months, supposedly the worst cuisine in the world.
As for the count, he barely touched the dishes. He seemed to be fulfilling his duty as a host by sitting with his guests, waiting for them to leave so he could be served some strange or more exotic food. Despite himself, this reminded Franz of the terror the count had inspired in Countess G, and her firm belief that the man in the opposite theater box was a vampire.
At the end of breakfast, Franz checked his watch. "Well," the count asked, "what are you doing?"
"You’ll have to excuse us, Count," Franz replied, "but we still have a lot to do."
"Like what?"
"We don’t have masks yet, and we absolutely need to get them."
"Don’t worry about that. I have a private room at the People’s Plaza, I think. I’ll have whatever costumes you want brought there, and you can change."
"After the execution?" Franz exclaimed.
"Before or after, whichever you prefer."
"Across from the execution platform?"
"The execution platform is part of the festival."
"Count, I’ve thought about it," Franz said. "Thank you for your kindness, but I’ll just accept a seat in your carriage and at your window at the Rospoli Palace. You’re free to give away my spot at the People’s Plaza."
"But I’m warning you, you’ll miss a very interesting sight," the count replied.
"You can describe it to me," Franz said. "Hearing it from you will affect me just as much as seeing it. I’ve thought about watching an execution more than once, but I’ve never been able to go through with it. What about you, Albert?"
"Me?" the viscount replied. "I saw Castaing executed, but I think I was pretty drunk that day. I’d just finished school that morning, and we’d spent the previous night at a bar."
"Besides, just because you haven’t seen an execution in Paris doesn’t mean you shouldn’t see one elsewhere. When you travel, you’re supposed to see everything. Imagine how you’ll look when someone asks, ’How do they execute people in Rome?’ and you say, ’I don’t know!’ Plus, they say the condemned man is a terrible criminal who killed a kind church official with a log, the same man who’d raised him like his own son. Hell! When you kill a churchman, you should use a better weapon than a log, especially when he treated you like a father.
If you went to Spain, wouldn’t you watch a bullfight? Well, think of this as going to a bullfight! Remember the ancient Romans at the Circus, where they killed three hundred lions and a hundred men. Think of the eighty thousand cheering spectators, the wise mothers who brought their daughters, and the beautiful Vestal Virgins who gave the thumbs-down signal with their white hands, saying, ’Finish off the dying.’"
"Are you going then, Albert?" Franz asked.
"Hell yes. Like you, I was hesitating, but the count’s speech convinced me."
"Let’s go then," Franz said, "since you want to. But on our way to the People’s Plaza, I want to pass through the Corso. Is that possible, Count?"
"On foot, yes. In a carriage, no."
"I’ll walk then."
"Is it important that you go that way?"
"Yes, there’s something I want to see."
"Well, we’ll go through the Corso. We’ll send the carriage to wait for us at the People’s Plaza via Babuino Street. I’d like to go through the Corso myself to see if some orders I gave have been carried out."
"Sir," a servant said, opening the door, "a man dressed as a religious penitent wants to speak with you."
"Ah yes," the count replied. "I know who that is. Gentlemen, would you mind returning to the sitting room? You’ll find good cigars on the center table. I’ll be right with you."
The young men got up and went back to the sitting room while the count, apologizing again, left through another door. Albert, a heavy smoker who’d considered giving up Parisian café cigars a real sacrifice, approached the table and gave a cry of joy when he saw some genuine premium cigars.
"Well," Franz asked, "what do you think of the Count of Monte Cristo?"
"What do I think?" Albert said, clearly surprised by the question. "I think he’s a delightful guy who hosts incredibly well, who’s well-traveled and well-read, and who’s like one of those ancient Stoic philosophers. Plus," he added, blowing smoke toward the ceiling, "he has excellent cigars."
That was Albert’s opinion of the count. Franz knew Albert never formed opinions quickly, so he didn’t try to change his mind.
"But," Franz said, "did you notice something strange?"
"What?"
"How closely he watched you."
"Me?"
"Yes."
Albert thought about it. "Ah," he said with a sigh, "that’s not surprising. I’ve been away from Paris for over a year, and my clothes are completely outdated. The count thinks I’m some country bumpkin. Please tell him I’m not, the first chance you get."
Franz smiled. A moment later, the count returned.
"I’m completely at your service now, gentlemen," he said. "The carriage is taking one route to the People’s Plaza, and we’ll take another through the Corso. Please, take more of these cigars, Mr. Morcerf."
"Gladly," Albert replied. "Italian cigars are horrible. When you come to Paris, I’ll repay all this hospitality."
"I won’t refuse. I’m planning to visit soon, and if you’ll allow me, I’ll come see you. Now, we don’t have time to waste, it’s half past twelve. Let’s go."
All three went downstairs. The driver received his master’s instructions and headed down Babuino Street. While the three men walked along Spanish Plaza and Frattina Street, which led directly between the Fiano and Rospoli palaces, Franz’s attention focused on the windows of the latter palace. He hadn’t forgotten the signal agreed upon between the man in the cloak and the peasant from across the river.
"Which windows are yours?" Franz asked the count as casually as he could manage.
"The last three," the count replied with genuine indifference, since he couldn’t imagine why Franz was asking.
Franz quickly glanced at the three windows. The side windows were draped with yellow silk, and the center one with white silk and a red cross. The man in the cloak had kept his promise to the peasant, leaving no doubt that he was the count. The three windows were still empty of people.
Preparations were happening everywhere. Chairs were being positioned, platforms raised, and windows decorated with flags. The masked carnival-goers couldn’t appear yet, and the carriages couldn’t move through the streets, but you could see masks behind the windows, and carriages and people waiting at doors.
Franz, Albert, and the count continued down the Corso. As they approached the People’s Plaza, the crowd grew denser. Above the sea of heads, two objects were visible: an obelisk topped with a cross marking the center of the square, and in front of it, at the intersection of three streets, Babuino, Corso, and Ripetta, the two uprights of the execution platform, between which gleamed the curved blade of the guillotine.
At the street corner, they met the count’s steward waiting for his master. The window, rented at an outrageous price that the count had probably wanted to hide from his guests, was on the second floor of a grand palace between Babuino Street and Pincio Hill. As mentioned, it consisted of a small dressing room opening into a bedroom. When the connecting door was closed, the occupants had complete privacy.